What if she should defy him? It would not be the first time. Something inside her quailed at the thought of his rage. But when she countered her father’s rage with the thought of the alternative, confronting Dom Garris and the memory of lust in his eyes, she realized that she would rather that her father beat her every day for a year than that he should deliver her over to Dom Garris. Didn’t he know what the man was like? And then, with her heart sinking, she realized that The MacAran was a man and would never have seen that side of Garris of Aldaran; that, Dom Garris showed only to a woman he desired.
If he touches me, I will vomit, she thought, and then she knew that whatever her father’s anger, she must make a final appeal to him.
She found him in the stable, supervising a stableboy in poulticing the knees of a black pony who had fallen in the yard. She knew it was not an auspicious moment, for he looked cross and abstracted.
“Keep up the poulticing,” he directed the boy, “Hot and cold, for at least two hours, and then treat the knees with karalla powder and bandage them well. And see he doesn’t lie down in the muck – make sure he has fresh straw every few hours. Even with all we can do, he will be scarred and I’ll have to sell him at a loss, or keep him for light work on the farm; if his knees get infected, we may lose him altogether. I’m putting you in charge – if anything goes wrong, I’ll have it out of your hide, you young rascal, since it was your careless riding let him fall!” The stableboy opened his mouth to protest, but The MacAran gestured him to silence. “And don’t give me any back-talk – I saw you running him on the stones! Damned young fool, I ought to put you to mucking-out and not let you exercise any of them for forty days!” He turned his head irritably and saw Romilly.
“What do you want in the stables, girl?”
“I came to find you, father,” she said, trying to steady her voice, “I would like a word with you, if you can spare the time.”
‘Time? I have none this morning, with this pony hurt and perhaps spoilt,” he said, but he stepped out of the stable and leaned against one of the rail fences. “What is it, child?”
But she could not speak for a moment, her throat swelling as she looked at the panorama behind her, the mountains that rose across the valley, the green paddock with the brood mares near their time, placidly grazing, the house-folk washing clothes in the yard, over a steaming cauldron poised on the smouldering fire of little sticks … this was all so dear to her, and now, whatever came of this, she must leave it … Falconsward was as dear to her as to any of her father’s sons, yet she must leave her home to be married away, and any of her father’s sons, even Ruyven who had abandoned it, could stay here forever, with the horses and the home hills. She swallowed hard and felt tears starting from her eyes. Why could she not be her father’s Heir in Ruyven’s place, since he cared nothing for it, and bring her husband here, rather than marrying someone she must hate, and living in a strange place.
“What is it, daughter?” he asked gently, and she knew he had seen her tears.
She swallowed hard, trying to control her voice. She said “Father, I have always known I must marry, and I would gladly do your will, but-but-Father, why must it be Dom Garris? I hate him! I cannot bear him! The man is like a toad!” Her voice rose, and her father frowned, but quickly smoothed his face into the forced calm she dreaded.
He said reasonably, “I tried to make you the best marriage I could, Romy. He is nearest Heir to Scathfell, and not far from the lordship of Aldaran of Aldaran, should the old man die without children, which now looks likely. I am not a rich man, and I cannot pay much of a marriage-portion for you; and Scathfell is rich enough not to care what you can bring. Dom Garris is in need of a wife-“